


The Inexplicable Explained

by Artik (orphan_account)



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1889382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Artik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a collection of odd ideas loosely connecting the fandoms. Mostly the mysteries of Sherlock explained by Doctor Who.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Matchbox

Clara was bored. Dreadfully so. For a girl that jumped into a blue snog-box with a stranger from outerspace, with two hearts, and an exaggerated number of brains, she had very drab moments on board of doing nothing. At times like this, she wished she never gave up some of her darker vices. Really, it wasn't her fault. One of her echoes had a bag of indiscernable alien leaves thrust upon her in Space Amsterdam. How was she supposed to know what it was? Out of curiosity, she did as the other beings in the planet-city, and smoked it in one of those weird pipes with water in them. She was in love.  
  
Now, mind you, Clara Oswald from Earth would never do something so disgusting. She was a good girl, thank you very much. However, the consequences of her foolish echo would carry over after that whole ordeal with the Great Intelligence. She, that is, the original, found herself craving something she herself never tried. She drummed her fingers against her skirted hip, trying to stave off her urges. To no avail. She jumped up and walked to the console room from her usually unused bedroom. "Doctor?", she called out, looking for the eccentric alien.  
  
"Yes? No. What?" A voice called from the underlevel of the console room, "Oh, Clara. Yes, down here."  
  
Clara bounced down the stairs, down to the Time Lord, who had his sleeves rolled up and a smudge of grease on his cheek. He smiled a goofy grin at him. "Hi," she said, unable to keep from smiling back. Who knew it would take a near-death experiance in a man's own extensive timeline to really appreciate him? She reached her hand out and rubbed the grease off of him. "You had some..."  
  
"Thanks," he said. "So, what is it?" He unrolled his sleeves. "You know," he put on a faux stern voice, "I was in the middle of _very_ important work on the phone line. If I don't finish it now, I may never remember to do it!"  
  
Clara laughed and shook her head, seeing right through him, "You were just fiddling with useless jobs down here while you waited for me to come out of my room, because you're too embarressed to go in there, weren't you?" She felt a hum at her feet as the TARDIS's way to affirm her accusations. "Can I pick our next place?"  
  
The Doctor ignored her completely true assumptions. "Yes, I suppose. As long as you don't put us in a position for aliens to force us to breed for their entertainment in lieu of execution for us breaking laws that neither of us know nothing about, like, say... wearing shoes on their holiest holiday. Or, you wearing the same color hair as their prostitutes."  
  
Clara frowned, "Does... that happen alot?"  
  
The Doctor dismissed this with a wave, "Eh. It depends on who you ask. Some of my more... inventive... _biographers_ tend to write borderline fiction." Clara tilted her head to ask what she meant, but was partially answered by him saying, "Captain Jack has a whole series of erotica about me." She decided not to ask who that was and just follow him to the main level of the console room. "Right," he said, sweeping an arm over the console, "All yours."  
  
Clara gulped. She sighed and put her hand on a random lever, but before she could pull it, several other levers and dials and buttons moved themselves and the ship took off. The Doctor looked astonished, "She finally likes you." He muttered about companions risking their lives for him usually makes her like them.

The Doctor looked out at the seemingly random choice of Clara's and stuck his head out the doors, his grin turning solemn. "Oh, no." He muttered, turning back to Clara, "I don't think you'd like this planet," he said flatly.  
  
Clara shrugged, "It was my choice, and I want to see what I picked. Out of the way, spaceman."  
  
The Doctor furrowed his brows, "Don't... don't do that." Clara looked up and saw, for a fraction of a second, a pained expression on his face. She said nothing. "Alright," he said, cheering up considerably. "After you."  
  
Clara stepped out and smirked to herself, seeing it look exactly as it did when her splintered self visited in search of the Doctor. At this thought of hers, the Doctor eerily said, "You know, I came here once. With a friend of mine. Well, I say friend. We were..." He saw Clara and shut up. He remembered that nothing good came from mentioning Rose to his new companions.

"What's there to do here?", Clara asked innocently.  
  
"Well, the coffee shops are..." He sighed, "We should probably get back to the TARDIS."  
  
"Why?", she asked, squinting slightly up at him.  
  
"Because... this is Space Amsterdam... the, err... cannibis capital of the universe."  
  
"Alright, alright," she said, "Just let me go to the loo."  
  
The Doctor nodded. "Take this. I don't want anything to happen." He handed her the completely not-a-weapon of sonic screwdriver.  
  
Clara wandered off in search of the nearest alien equivalent of a bank machine. She smirked down at the sonic stick of metal. She pointed it at the machine and it spewed out little junks of metal. She scooped them up and headed into a park, looking for any shady looking alien.  
  
She held the small pouch in her jacket pocket. It was supposedly an infinite supply of pot and rolling papers. The Doctor led her back to the TARDIS and she waited for the next stop.  
  
The Doctor was once again under the console, trying to keep busy. Clara wandered around the corridors for the only thing she needed--- a light. She found a stuffy old parlor room, one with a heavy stink of old tobacco smoke and the cackle of a fireplace. She found next to the armchair in the center of the room a matchbox, and snatched it up. She snuck around the console room and out the door, out into twenty-first century London. She ducked into an alley and opened the matchbox, only to find... "Holy..." She closed the box, shutting out the golden light. She dropped it where she stood and ran back into the TARDIS.  
  
A man walked behind her with malicious intent, but stopped to pick up what she had dropped. He opened it and after overcoming his shock, turned and ran the other way.

"Clara," the Doctor called. "Have you seen my transdimensional looking glass?"  
  
"Y... Your _what_?"  
  
"Looks like an ordinary matchbox," he said. "But... it's a way to see into another dimension. I use it to check in on myself. Well, I say 'myself', but really, it's a duplicate that grew from energy."  
  
"That doesn't sound plausible," Clara chimed in.  
  
"Yeah, well Captain Jack started having fantasies." He shook his head. "Anyway, I put the double into a parallel universe to look out for a... friend." He was learning to be delicate. "Have you seen a matchbox around?"  
  
"No," she lied.  
  
And so, nothing of consequence came from this. Except Clara's crippling addiction to marijauna.  
  
Did I say 'crippling'? I meant, 'really goddamn fun.' 

 


	2. Like 'Love and Monsters', But Cooler and Without Moaning Myrtle: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prelude to the fantastically improbable story of two nutjobs coming together (in a mostly nonsexual sense of the words, you goddamn perverts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little idea I had. This one's going to span at least two chapters and will feature at least one mystery guest. Part two will be Sherlock-centric, don't worry.

"Hang on," Rose said, fumbling with her phone, "I want you to meet someone, before we leave."  
  
"Rose," The North Doctor sighed, "I'm about to show you all of time and space, and you stop me for a phone call? Well, alright." He gave a goofy grin, a sharp contrast from his dark, leather jacket and close-cut hair.   
  
"His name is Clive, and he's a big fan." She called the number, only to get the British equivalent of a "this phone is no longer in service" message, whatever the hell that is. "Do I not get mobile reception in here?"  
  
The Doctor shook his head, "As long as we don't take off, you should still get a signal." He sonicked about, mumbling in affirmations.

"Right, so... we're still in the right year?" Rose looked around in vain for some sort of digital, localized calendar.  
  
"Yes," The Doctor said simply. He leaned on the console delicately, taking a good look at the still-new-to-him look of his ages old ship and constant friend.

"I think he's dead." Rose closed her eyes and sighed, "He said... he said that your constant companion is death. And he's dead," she let out a hollow laugh.   
  
"You need to get used to that fast, then," he said calmly and sincerely.  
  
"Can't you... go back and save him?"  
  
"No," The Doctor said, using his best Tortured Northern voice.

 

 

 _ **Tortured Northerner** _... the new fragrence for time travelling psuedopedophiles... Available now at your local seedy bazaar and your worst nightmares. Just make the dream lucid, and shout, "Hey, I can't do this anymore, Cynthia. I'm sorry, but...." and make intricate dolphin chirps. Whichever is most inconvenient and soul-shattering.

 

  
   
"I can't," he continued, "I can't go back in my own timeline."

"Why not," Rose asked.  
  
"Because I'm going to church!" The voice emanated through the TARDIS. The voice was ancient and childish and clothed in audible purple tweed. "This is Handles, he's a Cyberman. He'll get us to the church on time!"  
  
Rose blinked, "Who was that?"  
  
Nine shrugged, "The TARDIS is still a bit glitchy. Still fresh, lots of bugs to patch, kinks to work out." A pair of fuzzy handcuffs fell out of the ceiling, "I didn't mean that kind of kink, you pervy piece of pirated..."   
  
Rose interrupted his trying to grasp another line of alliterative dialogue to speak up, "That's him."   
  
A man walked out of the corner, "Hello, I'm Clive." He took the Doctor's hand in his and shook it, "Wonderful to meet you, really!" He beamed, "I've been studying you."  
  
The Doctor blinked, "You shouldn't exist," he said, showcasing his particular skills with light conversation. "You died, I'm fairly certain you died." He sonicked him from head to toe, "You died," he repeated, voice cracking.  
  
"How?", Rose figured she'd ask. You know, so she'd get another line in and Davies would pay her a bit better.

"The TARDIS," he gestured wildly, "Is leaking the past and future."  
  
To emphasize this, the TARDIS spouted out another voice of his saying, explaining, something, "The Master's canibalized the TARDIS! He's made it into a paradox machine!"  
  
Nine sighed and dismissed the implications of this from his mind. He locked this information away. "So, he," the Doctor pointed at Clive, "fell through the leak." He took off, setting it to just bounce around London in various times.   
  
Rose grinned, "I think it just likes me."

Another pair of handcuffs fell, along with a whip, a French maid's outfit, and a ball gag. Rose shook her head. "Sorry, miss," she patted the console, "Let's start with a date first, yeah?" she giggled. "So what do we do with Clive?"  
  
"Can I travel with you in time and space, sir?"  
  
The Doctor thought this through. On the one hand, another stupid ape to impress. On the other, interference in his plan to seduce and screw the brains out of the blonde one. I mean, create a beautiful relationship culminating with him giving up a life for her. Either or. "Nope," he threw Clive out into London, December Twenty-Fifth, Two-Thousand-Thirteen without anymore thought.  
  
"Have you ever heard of the planet of Roofalixis?"  
  
"No, what is it?", Rose asked with a smile, already having forgotten about Clive.  
  
"It's beautiful," The Doctor said, a twinkle in his eyes, "The trees smell like roasted nuts. Unfortunately, once every century, the trees emmit a pollen. It's a highly powerful aphrodisiac." He set the dial for one of those times. " _Hopefully_ we'll luck out and they just smell like Christmas."  
  
Rose nodded dreamily.  
  
'Too easy', he thought with a Northern grin.  
  
"Say," Rose asked finally, "What's that attractive smell?"  
  
"Well, Rose," the Doctor pulled out a highly decorative bottle of cologne, "It's **_Tortured Northener_** , the best scent in the universe!"

**Author's Note:**

> NEXT TIME....
> 
> Our two favorite conspiracy theorists meet at last.


End file.
